Invasion America: Dragitspawn
by The Summerfly
Summary: Character snippits for my ICs- Nebrija, Mizraim, Andrik, Xerxes, and Joan- the Dragit's children. Rated M, just incase. CH3: "Xerxes' life is full of promises."
1. Nebrija: Different

**Different**

Main Characters: Nebrija (IC), Arzu (IC)  
>Fodder: Invasion America<br>Genre: Tragedy/Horror/Deathfic  
>Pairings: NebrijaArzu  
>Rating: Adult<br>Warning: If you have a vivid imagination, reading might not be best. If you do not have a vivid imagination, I do not suggest research. This is a death-fic. There is torture. Read at your own risk.  
>Does it contain spoilers?: Nope<p>

Summary: Life on Tyrus isn't simple, and different is never good.

Notes: Both characters (Nebrija and Arzu) are of my own creation. The Matriarch is :iconzpansven:'s. -Most- of Nebrija's family tree we made together. Invasion America is made of awesome and does not belong to us, though we wish it did so we could put it on TV and addict more people.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Nebrija had always known he was different.

It wasn't anything physical. He looked like his father, a carbon copy down to all but the teeth, which were flat instead of razors. (Nebrija couldn't think of how he'd close his mouth with teeth like his father's; wouldn't he bite off his tongue?) He was small, but his mother had always assured him he'd grow big and strong, just like his father. Still, the difference _was_ there. Whatever it was, it remained present. Nebrija simply never tried to put his finger on it. (It scared him to wonder. What if something was wrong with him?)

~*~*~

He knew who he was, of course, even from the youngest age. He'd grown up with his lineage instilled in him from the womb.

He was the son of the Dragit, the leader of their military, who's prowess swept away evils and cowed the Empire. (His father was his father. His father would never exist in the Hall of Oosha. He would never know his father's name.) His father was the son of the red-haired body of Cale-Oosha, Vytis the Conqueror, who stormed The Enemy that had cursed them with Loss. (Nebrija knew neither who The Enemy were, nor what the Loss was, but Vytis had done it.) His grandfather was the son of his own mother, also Cale-Oosha- Vritra of the Rivers, who ended the theft of children, who was a mother of orphans, who saw the child-thieves rightly punished to end the fear of the people. (Nebrija loved stories of Vritra. He knew them all. Vritra made certain the Jedi would never haunt anyone again. He knew instead they feared her name.)

He was the son of Harissa, a Hellspawn of Bennu, who's raw power made lesser men quake and drove off the Halavalomka, and no soul-stealer could touch her. (He loved her. She was his mother and she believed he was perfect, no matter how different he knew he was.) His mother was the daughter of Kadell, Priest of Bennu, who sacrificed his own wife to bring Bennu's Chosen treasure into the world. (Nebrija tried very hard to stay out of his grandfather's way. Grandfather was never fond of his mother.) His grandfather was the son of Antti, Bennu's Truly Blessed, who had led the Church's circle of the Great War-God in tribune during the reign of Vytis the Conqueror, and so brought victory to them. (Nebrija was grateful for him, otherwise, they might have never made revenge for the Loss.)

He was the nephew of Cale-Oosha, Naoko of Justice, who believed all lives were equal, and had died of plague. (He didn't remember him. But history class said he was peaceful and good, and that he had tried to help the peasants, even as their world began to waste away. Nebrija was sure he was special.) Naoko was his father's brother, and so his father was of Oosha's blood, and that was that.

He was the cousin of Cale-Oosha, Cale the Martyred, who had never deserved to die trying to make peace with Earth-men. (Nebrija was one when he died, and he'd only met him once otherwise, for the space of a whole three minutes. But he remembered his cousin's voice, gentle and warm, and a buffer from all life troubles for the time he was there.)

By the time he was ten, Nebrija could trace his father's family tree back to the beginning with little effort. It was just something a Prince could do, and his brothers followed him with little trouble. Feydan told him he was paving the way. (Feydan was his best friend, and he'd never lie, so his word could be trusted.)

~*~*~

Nebrija knew what was wrong with him when he was thirteen, tucked in the Academy for Basics, nearly a proper adult. Being Royalty meant little, in the Academy. Even Peasantry outside the Domes came in for Basic. It was something Naoko-Oosha had done, and something that maintained beyond the death of the now-dead Cale, may his Body rest and the Oosha preserve.

Yet, Nebrija was far ahead of his age-group. The Matriarch saw to it he and his brothers had the finest tutors for the most basics of schooling, and his mother promised the real reason he went to the Academy was to learn how to socialize in a far gentler place then the palace. As a result, however, Nebrija studied and bunked with near-graduates, little more then two years from leaving the Academy altogether. (They were fifteen, and so much bigger then he was; it was hard.)

Life was made easier by his roommate, a peasant by the name of Arzu. Arzu had been different, too, though like Nebrija he'd looked normal. His hair was a sickly-dark shade of purple, nearly black, and his eyes had been bright, Tyrusian violet. Proper enough colors. He was a Hellspawn. (Nebrija never understood why Mizraim didn't like the Peasantry. Everybody was nice to him.)

Arzu had been smaller then other near-graduates. He'd confided in Nebrija that he wanted to make the Military cut, hit the marks to get pulled into Advanced Training. Nebrija hadn't, of course, but he knew a thing or two about being small and in fights, so he and Arzu had made up ways to practice when they weren't in Hand-to-Hand or Weapons.

Nebrija was good in most classes, but by near-graduate, the weapons needed a mental precision that he didn't have. He wasn't even allowed to participate. The instructor always set him aside, and so he usually spent the time by fiddling with his talisman, wishing it were different. Practice with Arzu _was_ different. (The first time Arzu had coaxed him to take off the beads, Nebrija had accidentally blown up the bunks. They'd spent three weeks scrubbing floors all the floors in the Academy, but Arzu's smile had been worth it.)

The first time they'd laced fingers, it had been an accident; they had simply been late for class, and Arzu had drug him there, fingers locked to make sure he didn't slip. Nobody else had noticed, but Nebrija had. They didn't speak of it either, pretending not to notice. It was another two months before Nebrija got the courage to reach out and touch Arzu's fingertips again, in the emptiness of a hall after class. He'd never felt happier then when Arzu had curled his fingers, but they'd kept a watch for onlookers, just the same.

It was just that for a while. Gentle little touches, what anyone else might mistake for soothing gestures. Their first kiss hadn't even really been a kiss. (Nebrija had some sauce on the corner of his mouth; it had been Arzu's favorite. It had been impulse; neither of them had planned it, neither had asked. They'd both been frightened to the bone. But the next week, Arzu caught his hand and pulled them into a storage closet, and Nebrija'd said yes.) They didn't know it was wrong.

It had existed to graduation. Still, when Nebrija was crying his eyes out, Arzu had promised to write to him from Advanced. They snuck out of the Dome graduation night to watch fuzzy, mostly hidden dots. Nebrija'd never been outside the city, and within the hour he was coughing bad enough he had to visit the medtech. Arzu had stayed close, seeming nothing more then an ever-vigilant friend.

They made it to Step Four the night before Arzu was shipping out to Advanced, in another city entirely, and Nebrija was going home. Promises that didn't last. (Nebrija was barely fifteen when he watched his first execution. It simply wasn't fair.)

~*~*~

His father called it _"Treason."_ A failure to preform one's duties to their people. Nebrija hadn't wanted to go, but it was his duty, as the eldest Prince. At the very least, he hadn't had to stand by his father's side. He'd been in a lower balcony, surrounded by nobles who jeered, and his heart had frozen when the prisoners had been brought out, a Crier listing their crimes. It wasn't even a law Nebrija had known. He had simply listened, numb with confusion, as they were left unnamed, but Nebrija had known the smallest of the pair with his soul.

Arzu's letters were hidden in a nook in his room, behind one of the rafters. A special place Nebrija kept precious things, so the maids wouldn't throw them out on accident. He knew the other's name as well, but he didn't remember it now; he'd just been someone who'd been trying to pursue Arzu in training. Arzu'd have none of it, he'd swore he wouldn't. His heart belonged to Nebrija, as Nebrija had given him his. It was a trust Nebrija knew bone-deep wouldn't be broken. (Arzu was nothing if not honest. He'd never be able to lie to save his life. That's why he was here now.)

"For crimes against the People and the Crown, you are found guilty and are hereby to be put to death!" (His father's words would haunt him forever.)

He wanted to look away as they forced Arzu into place. But Arzu had caught his gaze, looking as horrified as he felt, and Nebrija couldn't look away from him. It wasn't right to be there. Why did he have to be here, to watch this? He couldn't even take heart in the fact that Arzu's last site would be him. He couldn't even smile at him. His face was frozen. He couldn't breath. (He couldn't move; they were going to kill Arzu and he couldn't move!)

Arzu struggled against them, seeming desperate, and they forced him back onto the nails of the rack. Tyrusians held him, Tyrusians bound his wrists and ankles. Then his father gave the order, and a big, burly Tyrusian wrenched the wheel. Tyrusians crowed.  
>Nebrija's blood ran cold.<p>

The screaming lasted for hours. Eventually, the executioner silenced them by cutting the vocal cords, and before long, they were dead. It didn't rain in the Domes. Nebrija simply stood unmoving as the balconies emptied, as his father went home. (If he sent someone to fetch him, Nebrija didn't know.)

It was well after dark when the Matriarch found him, the day now passed from the execution at noon. Nebrija hadn't been able to look away, but his eyes were dry until the aged woman touched his shoulder in some sort of sympathy. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. But Nebrija didn't dare sob as she took him back to the palace and put him to bed, loading him with blankets as she called a trusted healer. (He was running a fever higher then should have killed a grown man.)

Lost to himself, Nebrija was simply too cold to feel the fear of death. (He wanted to die, he needed to die. He'd just stood there while they...!) The Matriarch did not leave him, and when he was warm again, ages later, all he knew was that he did not want to be different any longer.


	2. Andrik: Monster

**Monster**

Main Character: Andrik (IC)  
>Fodder: Invasion America<br>Genre: General/Horror?  
>Pairings: If you look really hard and squint sideways, you might see Twincest. But that wasn't intentional. I swear.<br>Rating: Teen  
>Warning: Reading too much into this has the potential to turn it into a very disturbing story. Try not to read between the lines.<br>Spoilers: None

Summary: Andrik was always ambitious to a fault. Standing in his way usually resulted in bad things.

Notes: Turns out, there's a TVTrope that describes Andrik. _Nightmare Fuel Station Attendant_. I feel oddly pleased with myself considering I don't read TVTropes very often.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

_Andrik is all of six while his sister is born._

While others cooed over how cute and adorable she was, Andrik had a hard time not seeing her for what she really was: a thief. He found it harder still not to hate her for what she stole, not to be angry. Eventually he learned the truth; that it is impossible not to be angry at her, and that fighting her directly is equally impossible.

Their mother named her Joan, named for some Human patron called Jeanna d'Arc. If asked, Andrik would smile and say it was a beautiful name. It was never a lie, yet he did not call his sister by name. He did not call his sister anything.

X-X-X-X-X

_By the time Andrik is six, he knows what he can do._

Andrik knew his father had plans for them. For himself, but more importantly his brother. He didn't quite recall when, but he knew as children his father's Adviser had visited them. Commander Tate had sat with them for a while, talked to them, played with them. Andrik had known the man was different, an oddity. So he watched him, and the coalescing colors that whispered secrets to Andrik's own soul.

Mizraim was always protective of him; they were twins, why wouldn't he be? Mizraim had always shared with him, as well. From toys, to treats, to Mother's time. Which was why Andrik was content enough to let him indulge in Mother's time. Everything Mizraim had, was under Andrik's purview.

When Commander Tate left, so too did Mizraim's desire to share with his brother, and Andrik would have none of that. The whispers coaxed him, schooled him, and in return, Andrik gave them a bit of himself; then, together, he and the whispers dug a trench in his brother's freshly-tilled mind, so deep no one would ever manage to rake it in again, that even Commander Tate could never bury it, and filled it with the mix that they were together.

Afterward, he slept. When he woke again, Mizraim was there. Protective. Offering him treats.

Andrik spent the next few years practicing on servants until he was well aware of his own limitations – he had none – and of how long it took to recover. He practiced and played, until the world was so well-versed in what he wanted, until the people were so intent on his desires, that he could do no wrong.

The limits of his subjects and their recovery did not matter.

X-X-X-X-X

_When Andrik was thirteen, Mother was captured and Joan died._

Joan had been showing signs of prominence. The rumor was worrisome, that she was the reborn Amie, Goddess of Luck. Andrik knew better then to believe such rumors; if she were indeed Amie, his father would never let her out of his sight. As it was, he did, so she was not.

Yet, she was a problem to him, nevertheless. Joan was talented, but Andrik was ambitious.

It was clear to him that his father favored Mizraim and would name him his heir. Mizraim would take his father's seat and, perhaps, the Hall of Oosha would be replaced with the Hall of Dragons until such a time as the Ooshati renounced their ridiculous notions and realized they were not, in fact, true followers of Oosha. That they were instead heretics, and truly foolish ones. Though Andrik doubted that would take more then a generation or two. He already had plans to sway the people's opinion of them. Mizraim had played into it well.

An elite guard of women. Andrik had picked them carefully, swaying Mizraim's opinion when necessary. Though no bad one made the cut for choosing. They trained hard, against Lune's Children, against the Royal Guard. They were Mizraim's Command. Andrik had called them Lufatithiji. Women of Thiji. The thiji was an aquatic planet, full of tendrils to ensnare small fish, birds, and the occasional unwitting child; thiji grew in thick, marshy clumps that were near-impossible to kill, but the flowers were a beautiful red hue. A perfect lure for prey.

It was Andrik's own mark, the thiji.

But Joan... courtiers called her Amie, but he'd heard his father call her something much different.

Oosha.

Impossible! Unthinkable!

Yet, for all his plotting, Joan did not think anything different of him. She came to him nearing her birthday for a visitation, the perfect elder brother, and he told her where the most beautiful sunrise must be. Nivati was a jungle world that harbored the darkest secrets of Tyrus, or so the legends told. Andrik did not believe in such superstitions, but he knew a much worse story of it: the Harpy's Plague.

Joan would not come home from her visit.

Still, he was not the one who leaked that they would be there. Nor had he been aware that Mother was going with her. But if he had, it would not have changed his plans.

Mother was a necessary loss. The Ooshati, he could spin it. Mizraim's Command would be sent to hunt them down, and Mother would be rescued.

X-X-X-X-X

"Andrik. I've got some sweets for you."  
>Andrik smiled, preening. Yes, life was good.<p>

X-X-X-X-X

_Nobody would learn the truth until Andrik was eighteen._


	3. Xerxes: Promise

_**Promise**_

Main Characters: Xerxes (IC)  
>Fodder: Invasion America<br>Genre: General  
>Pairing: NA  
>Rating: T<p>

Warning: N/A

Summary: Xerxes' life is full of promises

Notes: Xerxes is my character, as is Nech. Invasion America does not, however, belong to me. The Church, however, is kind of a joint collaboration between myself and ZpanSven. Ignore the odd style- FF wouldn't take it normal.

**OoOoO**

- The Church is as much a tantalizing promise as it is a secret adventure.  
>- Xerxes steps inside the archway beyond the doors for the first time when he is three, dogged by tales of an Ooshati nursemaid and led, supported, by Mother's warm smile and gentle eyes. <em>There is nothing to fear here<em>, Mother's hand squeezing his promises gently; _I am here, you are safe, I will always be here._ A promise, Xerxes knows, will not always be true, but he is three and wishes to believe. He hopes, instead, that it is true, and he will loose no one else.  
>- Mother shows him hidden passages, quick routes to the Circle of the Priests' Garden, the treasures of the kitchen and the jewel that is the Gods Library.<br>_- We'll be pirates,_ Mother swears, in a hushed, quiet voice, because Xerxes is yet a child. _But before we be pirates,_ she says, _we must be noblemen._ And then she winks, and tucks him into bed, and goes to talk to the Priests.  
>- Mother stays with him for a week, weaving stories from every nook and cranny a child as young as he may see, and lays the foundation for the adventure. For accomplishment, like Earth-born Robinshood.<br>- He does not see his mother again. His view of the outside is limited at best, and he is cared for by Nech, who becomes like his father. Or what stories paint fathers, for Xerxes knows his blood by name and myth and rumor only. Nech teaches him all he needs to know, and that he is to know himself by how he perceives others. Xerxes keeps a journal, and writes of everyone he sees, everyone he speaks to, and the only thing he does not pick apart is his mother's letters.

_OoOoO_

- The Church is not so much an adventure when he is older, but it still holds promise; strong, and unyielding, and it gives him everything.  
>- Xerxes first attacks the library unattended when he is seven, and surprises Nech with a flare of knowledge of history forgotten on top shelves and lost in dust. Nech never lets him in the library again, and calmly, patiently explains that Xerxes needs to forget about those shelves. Xerxes doesn't know anything about Rafeal, Zeran or the Clash of Kings, and so he was happy to do so.<br>- He is oddly happy when Nech confronts him about his journal entry, questioning why his charge thinks a certain expression means he is proud, and Xerxes can't hide his smile, because Nech is still wearing it.  
><em>- You did well,<em> Nech does not say, but Xerxes hears him anyway, in his motions and his gaze, and preens under his mentor's unspoken praise.

_OoOoO_

- Xerxes is eleven when he receives his last letter from his Mother, a silent promise. He writes to his brothers, but that is limited. They don't talk about anything. Mother, he tells everything.  
>- He has a little sister. Mother named her Joan, off a female warrior Earthside, like he was named after a great man. Xerxes has never met her, has never seen her; he knows her better then anyone might, reading his mother's dictations of the beautiful, warm-hearted little girl who only wants to please. Who listens to stories of a lost brother on her mother's knee, and Xerxes feels closer to the child he's never met, never spoken to, never seen, then he ever has to his brothers. He and Joan do not write, however; Xerxes only knows to write one language, and Joan cannot read it. The same is true in reverse.<br>- If they did not speak through their mother, neither would be aware of the other.  
>- He sends back promises to meet them both soon, and a gift of carefully whittled beads, edged and etched in prayer. <em>Stay safe,<em> he does not write, but he is certain they hear the words in his letters.

_OoOoO_

- Nech is there, a silent pillar of support, when he has to deliver the news to Xerxes that there will be no more letters from the strongest support he had ever had. Xerxes manages a sad, distant smile, and promises Nech he will not miss evening prayers.  
>- For the life of him, Xerxes does not know why Nech looks saddened by this fact.<p>

_OoOoO_

- The Church is now a sanctuary, a barrier to protect him from the outside world, and the horrors that live there.  
>- Xerxes throws himself into his studies and worship, and sets aside the journal he kept for family. Stubbornly, he locks away further letters, unopened.<p>

**OoOoO**

- Xerxes cuts his hand through the air, and marvels as distant forms snap, crack, and shatter.

_- You can change the world, my prince,_ Mother whispers.  
><em>- This is your power, perfected,<em>Nech swears.  
>- For the first time, Xerxes fears the future that is set for him, that has been designed explicitly for him. But he knows he cannot step off the path; his mother has died for this, Nech has lived for it. Xerxes is going to give back to them everything he can, and if all he can do is walk this path for them.<p>

- "You have letters you need to read, Xerxes."  
>- Xerxes motioned to the box at the foot of his hammock, and almost heard more then saw Nech frown at him. Much as Nech ever did.<br>- "It is from the Matriarch. It will be important."  
>- "I will read it later."<br>- "Now, if you would."

- The Church is his safe-haven. Now, it is the world beyond that is the promise.


End file.
